


Small Hands: The Origins

by songsaboutdrowning



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsaboutdrowning/pseuds/songsaboutdrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the song "Small Hands" came about. Warning: contains NC17 scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She wakes up and blinks. It's a bad idea. The light seems ten times brighter than normal and she can't take it all in, so she closes her eyes again. Slowly, tentatively, she squints, then fully opens her green eyes and groans. It's not a sound that she's conscious of making; just the aftermath of what's been a hell of a night – her twenty-first birthday, in fact. Her throat feels like the Sahara desert and the urge of soothing it with water is stronger than the hammering in her head.

When she swings her legs right, expecting to go over the side of the bed, she meets Isa's sleeping form under the covers and realises this is not her house. The walls are a little too white and the bedroom is way too tidy to be hers – it would be messy by anyone else's standards, but not Florence's, whose accumulated treasures in her room take up so much space she sometimes sleeps on the sofa.

Left it is, then, and as her feet touch the carpet and she rises out of bed she realises she is naked. Completely butt naked. She looks around the room, panicked, and curses under her breath because she shook her head _too fast_. She feels dizzy and weak and the hammering isn't stopping. If she remembered what day of the week it is, she'd contemplate going to the local chippy to buy a takeaway full-English for herself and Isa, but she doesn't want to risk making a trip for nothing.

Her outfit from last night is half on the floor, half on an armchair – thank god she was wearing shorts, because her knickers are currently missing-in-action - so she grabs the pieces and sneaks out quietly, not wanting to wake Isa.

She slips on the cut-offs and blouse as soon as she's out of the room, and darts towards the kitchen, drinking handfuls of water directly from the tap until finally, the feeling of not having had anything to drink in about twenty years is gone.

She gets a bottle from the fridge next, and in a moment of concern, checks that there's at least another one for Isa when she wakes up. She carries it to the lounge, where she carefully places it on the floor and lets herself crumple unceremoniously on the sofa.

She hugs her knees and curls up in a ball, as much as her thin limbs and sharp angles will allow. Her head is pounding still, but she remembers the salient points of last night with lucidity, and she's not surprised when she finds a massive, hard bruise right in the middle of her shin.

She fell down the stairs. They were in Isa's studio and there were so many people, they'd ended up spilling onto the street. The studio was in an artsy, bohemian community so no one minded that people were pooled in the street smoking and drinking; in fact, strangers had even walked past and ended up joining in the conversations.

She may not remember why she was trying to go downstairs, but she does remember her right leg suddenly giving way, unable to support her unstable movements on such a high heel; she remembers it bending against her will, bringing her to a kneeling position on the staircase. She remembers stumbling down a couple of steps, unable to break her fall, and grabbing the banister only when it was way too late, and being in fits of giggles at her own stupidity.

She remembers getting up, because some guy who was walking back up the stairs to the studio stopped to help her up, grabbing her by the waist and lingering for too long. She remembers her thoughts being too fuzzy to tell him to piss off, but she knows she tried her absolute best at a death glare, which isn't easy when you've just been crying with laughter.

Isa. She had to find Isa. That's why she was going downstairs. Isa was on the street, surrounded by three or four friends, the tiniest of the group but somehow the loudest, the shiniest. Florence didn't care about interrupting the conversation: she took the few steps to reach the group and tackled Isa into a hug, as she shouted-

Fuck.

She cringes as she remembers what she shouted and, although it may not be word-for-word accurate, her recollection is something along the lines of “I JUST WANT TO SAY – I JUST WANT TO SAY THAT THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON THE PLANET AND I AM MADLY IN LOVE WITH HER AND IF SHE DOESN'T MARRY ME I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'LL DO.”

She remembers Isa shaking her head, patting Florence's hand and not believing a word of it. Probably wanting to go back to chatting to her friends.

“WHAT, YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME?” She remembers kissing Isa's cheek at that point with a smack. She's pretty sure she also said, “I will snog you NOW in front of all these people if you need me to prove myself to you.”

Isa must have realised she was serious then. It took her a few moments, but she eventually must have concluded that this was _not_ typical shitfaced-Florence behaviour. That generally included girly screams, mood swings, a propensity for cuddling, and attempts to climb anything taller than six feet – including things topped with fucking _barbed wire._

She remembers how Isa had wanted to drag her away from the crowd. It was packed upstairs, and packed downstairs, the staircase the only connection point between the two. Isa had grabbed her by the arm, and taken her around the back of the building, in near darkness. There is never complete darkness in London.

She must have somehow known that Florence was going to follow up on her threat (or promise?) once they were out of sight, because as soon as they rounded the corner, to avoid Florence kissing her, Isa had placed a hand on her solar plexus, pushing back slightly.

She remembers the sensation of her back against the brick wall, she remembers looking down at Isa and blinking – waiting.

“You know what,” Isa'd said, “that would have been funny if I didn't have the feeling there was some truth in it. Just _how_ drunk are you?”

“OUTSTANDINGLY”, she had enunciated. She even remembers the sensation of more giggles bubbling up in her chest at that moment and thinking, _no, not now, this is serious, I am being serious._

“Are you drunk enough to forget this tomorrow?” Isa had asked with a squint. 

“I won't remember my own fucking name tomorrow.” The giggles came up then, liberating.

“Ok, then.” Before she knew what hit her, Isa's lips were upon hers and it wasn't just because of the alcohol that her reaction was slow, but also because of being completely stunned for a minute. Isa didn't seem pleased at her earlier outburst, she was sure of that, but the enthusiasm with which she had grabbed her face in her hands said otherwise.

She remembers tangling her fingers in Isa's hair and kissing her back, wanting to scream with confusion and delight all at the same time. It is true that she has fancied Isa for quite some time now, awed by the way you would never think, just by looking at her, that she can do all the things she can do. She loves Isa for being wicked, clever, and a lot more talented than she gives herself credit for. She's just never said it, let alone translated it into actions.

Isa's lips were soft, and full, and even the beer buzz in Florence's head eventually stopped, to acknowledge that one of her fantasies was coming true.

“I want to get out of here,” she remembers saying, “and do nothing but this for the rest of the night.” 

Isa had stared ahead, not meeting her eye, and nodded. “If you're sure.”

She remembers all of it. She said to Isa that she wouldn't, but she never believed it for a minute. And now she has to deal with that.

You don’t forget kissing your best friend.

You don't forget how she declared the party was over, and asked everyone to kindly go home because you were sick and she was going to take you home.

You don't forget playing up to her cover story and shouting _“I love everyone in this bar!!”_ so that people will think you're going home to throw up all night, rather than to fuck said best friend. 

An idea strikes her then. She will put this in writing and she will do it before Isa wakes up. She will give her her own version of events - one in which she has kept her promise of forgetting.

_I don't remember falling down_  
 _I don't remember getting up_  
 _and I certainly don't remember drinking that much_

As if. As if she doesn't remember the way they walked back to Isa's - not hand in hand, like lovesick girls, but with a sense of purpose, each step bringing them closer to tearing each other's clothes off.

The buzz of the alcohol started to wear off during this walk, and she experienced mild panic, suddenly seeing herself from the outside. She wished for another drink, something that would send her back into that blissful happiness where she only had two thoughts: one,  _my best friend just kissed me_ and two,  _she is blatantly taking me home for sex._

The dullness stopped, though, when Isa didn't even wait for the door to the building to fully close before she had Flo up against a wall. How were they going to get up two flights of stairs when Isa's hands were already under Flo's shirt and her mouth was on her neck, grazing slightly with her teeth?

She knows that she gasped then, because the sound only egged Isa on, and her hand moved swiftly down Florence's side, caressing her hip and resting dangerously close to the hem of her cut-offs. She remembers feeling like she could pass out; shaking out of her reverie and running up the stairs ahead of Isa, before she just had her wicked way with her in the hallway of her block of flats.

Isa had caught up with her, struggled to get the key in the lock and eventually dropped her whole keyring, cursing under her breath. Florence had found it endearing, in a weird way, and she had wondered if Isa was losing her nerve, because  _she_ certainly was. 

“Your hands are so tiny,” the alcohol spoke, before Florence could stop it. It was a stupid thing to say to try and lighten the mood, but Isa had not acknowledged it at all, finally winning her battle with the door, and slamming her hand on the light switch like it had insulted her mother.

Isa had dropped her bag, keys and all, in the corridor and like a woman possessed, had spinned around to once again lock lips with Florence, who let her, completely stunned that someone so much shorter than her could have so much force and self-assurance to basically paralyse her. Her insides started melting, though, and she regained control of her movements, wondering if it was possible to die from too much perfection.

She thought she wanted this. She thought that this was her decision. Her fantasy, or her wish. But it seemed to be Isa's just as much as her own.

She remembers how she almost didn't catch the words when Isa had breathlessly challenged, “My hands are perfectly fine. Let's see if you still think they're tiny in a few minutes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to lie, this is just smut. I've been very uncomfortable about posting this because it's the first and only sex scene I have ever written and, basically, I feel self-conscious about it.

She did not remember who had dragged whom onto the bed. Not that it mattered. For someone of her stature, Florence had been more than happy to let Isa take the lead and climb on top of her. She'd watched through half-closed lids as Isa had swifly pulled her t-shirt over her head and chucked it somewhere on the floor; Isa's skin was soft to the touch, and warm, and smelled faintly of something Florence could only identify as toffee. _That_ she remembers. The sensory overload of touch and scent catapults her back into the situation, as if she was still with Isa, instead of sitting on her own, on the sofa.  
  
She looks briefly at the notepad on her knees, noticing she's jotted big, block letters around the right hand side, and all they say is  
 _Isa  
Isa  
Isa_  
  
She tears that page off and crumples it into a ball, letting it fall on the floor, next to her water bottle.  
  
When they were kissing, Florence remembers smiles, each time they broke apart; they both did, she in disbelief, Isa in what seemed like triumph. She had sat up and wrapped her arms around Isa, who was now straddling her lap, her face just inches above Florence's own. A tug at Florence's blouse had signified a request to remove it, and Flo had complied, dissociation in her head telling her to remember, remember the hunger with which Isa had grabbed her breasts and pinched her nipples, while at the same time trying to tease Florence's tongue out of hiding with her own.  
  
She really was a fucking good kisser.  
  
Her exploration had continued, she had trailed her fingertips down the side of Isa's neck, her collarbones, along the top of her bra cup.  
  
“Take this off, please?”, she had timidly asked, her drunken boldness failing her when she most needed it.  
  
Isa seemed to calm down then, and she let Florence discover her at her own pace. When Flo had taken her nipples between her long fingers, and then replaced one hand with her mouth, Isa's breathing had become laboured and she'd tangled her fingers in Flo's hair, pulling her closer.  
  
 _I can't get any closer than this,_ Florence had thought. _My face is in your boobs._  
  
Isa's hand had somehow reached her crotch and she was so incredibly aware of it, even through two layers of clothing, she couldn't concentrate on doing anything else for a minute. Florence had closed her eyes, thrown her head back, and tried to focus on the sensation of Isa's thumb, drawing circles above the fabric and not knowing if she wanted her to go on forever, or to stop with the teasing already and just touch her.  
  
“Flo,” Isa's voice had brought her back to the land of the living. “You're gonna have to take these off. I can't go much further otherwise.”  
  
“...why, though?” She'd asked in her drunken stupor. “Why would you even want to do this?”  
  
She remembers how Isa had looked suddenly serious, almost embarrassed, still sitting in her lap with her top off. Brown hair was cascading wildly down her shoulders, and her chest was rising and falling, almost back to a normal pace.  
  
“Because this may be the only chance I get,” were Isa's words then. “I have dreams about this at night, you know.”  
  
Florence remembered fleetingly about having a boyfriend, somewhere. He was not at her party. Work, she thought. She mentally thanked him for making this possible. Then she shuffled from under Isa and self-consciously stood from the bed, and fumbled with her shorts, sliding them off her long legs and chucking them on the nearest surface – the armchair in Isa's bedroom.  
  
“Knickers, too,” Isa had ordered, and she'd gulped and complied. She had turned around just in time to see Isa scramble to her feet, and go stand right in front of her. _She_ had kept her skirt on: unfair. Without shoes, Isa hardly came up to about her shoulder. She had placed her palms flat on Florence's collarbones and slid her hands down, grabbing her breasts again.  
  
“My hands may be tiny,” she had whispered, “but it seems to me they're the perfect size for these.” Then, she had given Florence the wicked grin that Flo was more than familiar with. To see it here, in this context, made Florence go weak in the knees. She had to act fast before she just passed out on the bedroom floor.  
  
She pushed Isa back onto the bed, and crawled on top of her on all fours, not wasting any time. She hitched Isa's skirt up onto her stomach and traced the hem of her knickers with her fingers, feeling the wetness even from the outside. For someone who'd never done this before to anyone other than herself, it was coming quite natural.  
  
Her middle finger had lifted the fabric of Isa's knickers while the tip of her index had tentatively stroked her wetness, causing Isa to hiss in pleasure. A strangled “aaaah” came from her throat as Florence flicked her finger back up in the opposite direction. Not having any more clothes to grab onto, Isa had wrapped her legs around Flo's waist and pulled her down, looking up at her through thick, black lashes. Their foreheads touched, and Isa looked like she was going to say something, causing enough distraction to Flo that she didn't feel Isa's hand slide up between her thighs.  
  
“You are so... fucking... wet,” she'd said, and without waiting for an invitation, slid one finger easily into Florence.  
  
She remembers the sensation of feeling perfectly full, tiny hands my arse. She remembers rocking her hips back and forth to meet Isa's fingers like she had lost control of her own movements.  
  
At some point she must have realised she was still in the middle of doing something and sent a command to her right hand to slip inside Isa in return. Isa's eyes closed, and she bit her lip, and as she tried and failed to breathe normally, Florence thought it was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen.  
  
“I could come just from hearing you moan like this,” she'd said, and Isa had tried to giggle, but she was so busy panting it sounded like she was choking more than anything else.  
  
Isa's other hand reached up to rub Flo's clit like she had been doing this all her life, and Florence lost any sense of time and space as she was trying so hard to touch and be touched, all at the same time, moaning into Isa's face and stealing the occasional kiss. This was bliss; she never wanted it to end. Coming was overrated, she just wanted to be on top of Isa and inside her and have Isa's nimble fingers stroke her clit forever. Who needed release?  
  
She did, apparently. Whenever Isa remembered to breathe, she was lifting her head and telling her to shush, _shush, the neighbours are going to hear you,_ but Florence had no power over what her body was doing and when orgasm hit, she all but screamed. She gasped and smiled and tried to catch her breath, mindful of how Isa was clenching around her fingers and feeling a little pleased with herself. Isa may act like she was bothered by Florence making noise, but Florence knew that was exactly what had sent her over the edge.  
  
Collapsing on top of Isa, she had complained, “I wasn't that loud”. Isa had chuckled, and made a big show of licking her fingers, which made Florence extremely self-conscious.  
  
“You were,” she said, “it was fantastic.” Touching her forehead to Flo's again, Isa had grinned “And don't you dare say I have small hands ever again.”


	3. (conclusion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter in my story on how the song "Small Hands" by Florrible & Misrabella came about.

Isa comes out of the bedroom wearing an oversized Disney nightgown, a present from Florence, who thought buying her sleepwear with a picture of Grumpy on the front was just _hilarious_. Isa's frown and the way she's squinting and ruffling her hair reinforce Flo's choice.  
  
Florence offers a warm smile and pats the sofa next to where she's sitting.  
  
“Morning,” she says brightly. “I've been busy writing.”  
  
Isa stays rooted to her spot. “You look and sound surprisingly perky for someone who should be hanging.”  
  
“I _am_ hanging. And I've had nothing to eat. But I wrote a little something. Come see it.”  
  
Isa's legs finally move and she goes to sit next to Florence. She picks up the notebook from Flo's lap and examines the words, still squinting.  
  
 _So I'm gonna shout it  
I'm sorry for what I said  
And I'm sorry for what I did  
But I can't remember any of it_  
  
Isa raises an eyebrow, suspicious. Flo looks quite pleased with herself, which only adds to her belief that this is all just an act. Flo does remember, but for some reason, she's not saying. Maybe she wants to keep her word to Isa.  
  
“Just to fill you in on 'what you said and what you did': you professed your love for me and said you wanted to snog me in front of everyone, Flo.”  
  
“Did I? Yeah... that sounds like me.” Florence smiles, with a little shrug. “And did we? Snog, I mean?”  
  
The air crackles with things left unsaid. Two can play at this game.  
  
“You made to go back into the studio, tripped up the stairs and passed out on the floor.” Isa lies, to see how far she can push it.  
She wants Florence to pipe up and stop pretending. She wants her to admit that she remembers, that it's ok if she doesn't keep her promise not to. But it's like they're spinning an elaborate lie, bouncing off each other, just so they don't have to face the truth.  
  
The truth is that as much as they don't want to talk about it, they're both wishing they could do it all over again.  
  
“I see, I see. Well, after we've had some breakfast I figure we could go down to the studio and record this, you know, unless you have other plans?”  
  
Isa can't help but hear innuendo in Flo's question, and she doesn't understand if she's just imagining it. She shrugs, pulling her legs up on the sofa and resting her forehead on her knees.  
  
People always say that you do things you don't want when you're drunk. You make bad decisions that you regret the next morning. Isa thinks the opposite; you do things you wouldn't otherwise have the guts to do. They'd both done that; Florence saying she was "in love" with Isa, and Isa acting on her silly crush; something she'd never felt ok with doing up until that point.  
  
She had always told herself it wasn't right, that Florence was with Stuart, that her dreams would stay just that. Florence saying she wouldn't remember was just the excuse she needed to experience bliss with her, just once. But in fairness, _who_ did that? Who obliterated a whole night from their memories? Isa had been hopeless and naive to think it would really just happen that way.  
  
With a knowing smile playing at the corner of her lips, Florence concludes: “I think I might title it _Small hands._ ”  
  
It's her way of saying that yes, she remembers, and this will forever be a secret between them.  
  
They never speak about it again.


End file.
